


Fate Emptied of Hope

by statisticsfag



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Depression, Dragon Age Kink Meme, I know, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, scandalous, very light slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 06:20:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8133493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statisticsfag/pseuds/statisticsfag
Summary: A fill for a prompt on the DA kink meme: Anders Separates from Justice/ Suicide Attempt w/slow recovery.I read the prompt and started writing and ... 5k words later... oops.Rated M for attempted suicide, self-harm and otherwise depressive stuff.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The original prompt was a little longer, [so here's the link to it](http://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/15999.html?thread=62276223#t62276223). I feel like I deviated a bit from the story anon was looking for but, uh, it's something?

He’s seen it before, in the Circle.

It took him many times, too many times, to see a pattern. Not that it helped enough, didn’t allow him to save enough lives.

The mage would slowly, ever so slowly start slipping away from the others. Maybe they were quiet or aloof to begin with, maybe they hated the Circle so much that they didn’t want anything to do with the others. Maybe they thought staying quiet and out of sight meant less hassle from the Templars. Or maybe it was more radical, the mage in question being happy and outgoing in the beginning, but slowly becoming more docile.

Sadder.

Sometimes they would confess their troubling thoughts to others, in the dark of the night, in quiet, serious words. Sometimes the listener wouldn’t understand. Sometimes they understood all too well.

When the change came, most took it as a good sign. The mage seemed calmer, more content, might even smile more. Others thought they were through with whatever was troubling them and didn’t press for more talks when it seemed like a huge weight was lifted from the mage.

They thought that the mage was being thankful when they began to give gifts to those who had listened, of what scarce personal items they had. An embroidered handkerchief from home, a favourite, dog-eared book.

And then they were gone, left this world by their own hand.

Anders tried to help those he saw traveling down this path. He would watch them closely after their mood suddenly turned better, because he knew they had made the final decision, that knowing making the remainder of their days so much easier. Soon, it would all be over.

Too many times when he was released from solitary confinement, he found a previously depressed mage missing. Gone, they’d say, looking down. They knew.

Sometimes nothing could be done. No matter how much others tried to persuade the mage, talk to them, stay with them, they would find a way to end it.

Now it was Anders’ turn to ponder the best way to do it.

 

* * *

 

It started with Justice.

Despite what he would eventually tell Hawke, lie to Hawke, Anders did really research on methods to separate him from Justice. Or Vengeance, as it had been twisted into. It was a combination of potion and spell, including some elements that dipped a little too much into illegalities for Anders’ liking. But seeing the hope on Hawke’s face, on his friends’ faces, when he told about his research made it worth the ethical issues.

He wanted to please his friends, wanted to be useful to them. If, if he could separate Justice from himself, he’d be a better, more stable healer to them. That’s what they wanted, right? He knew they thought his opinions were too extreme, especially when it came to mage rights. He remembered that it wasn’t always so, that it was Justice who incinerated those opinions until they became too hot to keep inside.

Hawke, Merrill and Fenris were there for the separation. The elf volunteered, stating that he’d be the one to swing his sword first if something went wrong and Anders (or Justice) turned into a demon. Anders accepted that. There was always a risk.

Merrill was there to assist with the spell, the same threat from Fenris looming over her head as well. Hawke was there to help anyone who needed it. He could help pouring the potion down Anders’ throat when he went under. And help Fenris if need be.

Oh, how Anders hoped it would be Hawke to stay close to him, maybe even hold his hand in a gesture of comfort, smooth loose strands of hair off his face. And maybe after Justice gone, he could confess his feelings towards the man without having a spirit inside him to complicate things further. He had so many stones around his neck already; a wanted apostate, a Grey Warden, possessed. Not exactly prime boyfriend material. So maybe, just maybe…

The ritual as they called it was excruciating. Anders had never been exposed to such horrible pains in his life and that was saying something. It felt like the blood in his veins halted to a stop before starting to flow in the opposite direction, a wholly unnatural sensation. His skin felt like it had been grated by rough bricks rubbing against it, peeling off layer after layer. He was told later that his screams had been inhuman, terrifying, soul-rending, leaving his witnesses shaken down to the core.  

It took him days to fully wake up. He had vague memories of his friends buzzing about, forcing him to sip water, coating his lips with honey for sustenance. But when he finally was awake and lucid, Hawke was there, sitting on a low stool next to his run-down cot, head between his hands.

“Anders, you’re awake! How are you feeling?” he had asked, relief washing over his face.

Anders didn’t know how he felt. Unnerving, perhaps. Strange. Incomplete.

“How is your magic?” Hawke had asked carefully. Obediently Anders conjured up a weak sphere of light from his hand and saw how pleased Hawke was.

Soon after, Hawke left him alone to recover, saying something about Anders’ magic taking care of the rest. It took a while before the thought crystallized in Anders’ mind.

That his friends cared more about his magic, his skills as a healer, than about Anders the person. Even Hawke, strong, handsome, flirty… Maybe those flattering comments he flung Anders’ way weren’t so special after all.

Anders kept waiting for the strange hollowness to pass. Without Justice in his head, in his body, he felt unfinished. He couldn’t hear the darkspawn anymore either, apparently the ritual or Justice removing the taint in his blood as well. There were too many variables to be sure which part of the separation was responsible for that, and Anders was not up for more testing.

His mind seemed empty. He wondered if old married couples felt like this after the other one had passed. After a lifetime of having the other one around, every day doing the same routines, same chores, always knowing the other was there. Until they weren’t. Until you rushed home one day, excited with good news and there’s no one there to share with.

Sure, he hadn’t spent a lifetime with Justice in him, but then again, even old married couples weren’t _that_ close.

Was he… mourning?

Why should he? He was free now, after all. Free from Justice, free from the Grey Wardens and therefore should be free of his burdens. That was what Varric told him when he told the dwarf of his curious feelings. But that didn’t stop the feeling of being insufficient, like missing a limb.

His friends laughed at him good-heartedly after their first night at the Hanged Man without Justice, when Anders found he was able to drink and get inebriated again and of course overdoing it. It was a celebration after all, a new chapter in the story of the gang.

The hollowness transformed to a sort of listlessness. It showed to his mage underground contacts. His speeches against the Circle weren’t as rousing as before, his blazing fury for the Templars diluting. Without Justice to drive him, what was the point? They weren’t going to succeed in their violent revolution. What could they, a handful of angry mages, accomplish against Meredith and her army of Templars and loyal mages? There was no purpose in his life anymore, no end goal to strive for. The foundations of his life melted away from underneath his feet and he was at a loss.

He couldn’t understand why his friends were so happy when he was so broken. He answered Hawke’s calls for adventures and was always appreciated for his healing magic. His magic. Not him, not Anders. How had he not seen it before? Had he been so enamoured with having friends in Kirkwall that he had chosen to ignore their need for his skills? Had he been so eager to please Hawke that he would have accepted any sort of ridicule just to have a morsel of the man’s radiant attention on him?

Where did he belong now?

In the clinic, he decided and engrossed himself in his work healing the ill. Even that felt different without Justice’s presence in his head, always criticising his work. Was this really necessary for the mage revolution, why didn’t you do heal the child like this, you’re misusing your valuable time. In a way Anders was reminded of the old married couple again, one of them constantly nagging to the other who just rolled their eyes and agreed.

What was that story about lovebirds? If one of the pair dies, the other dies soon after of a broken heart?

He was so completely and utterly alone without Justice. He couldn’t even remember what socializing, spending time with people had been before Justice. He had been a happy person, yes, but how? How did he block out certain words and phrases, certain ways some things were said?

The emptiness in his mind soon began to fill up. With details he thought he had heard from his friends, murmured by his clients, whispered between the other mages.

_Why is he like that?_

_Doesn’t he appreciate what we’ve done for him?_

_When is he going to just let go that mopey-ness?_

_I kind of wish they hadn’t been separated!_

The more he tried to ignore it, the clearer it became for him. He was only a healer. Not a person, not a man, not a friend. A healer. A tool to be used. For a time, he tried to embrace it, tried to be content with his lot. It didn’t work.

The space Justice left behind was becoming heavy with darkness. Like a black, persistent stain, blocking out certain things and highlighting others. Twisting his reality into a world where everyone was out to get something from him, something useful.

The few times his friends came to visit him, he turned them quickly away, saying that he needed to work on his manifesto, needed to treat patients, needed time to figure things out in his head. They smiled and shrugged and agreed. And left.

The black stain in his mind started to remind him of his time in the Circle. Of the mages who escaped without fail the bleak life they were cast into. Now their choice started to make more sense to Anders. Because what else is there to do when you have nothing in your life? Why stay here, suffering and weary, when you could have peace?

His friends would have to find a new healer. Anders didn’t doubt for a moment that they wouldn’t find one. Between Varric’s glib tongue and Hawke’s charm, they’d find someone even better. Yes. Someone they could call a friend. Someone who wasn’t moody all the time. Someone whole. Maybe even someone to capture Hawke’s heart. A nice, blonde girl with crystal blue eyes.

Not poison, Anders thought. That was a gruesome and messy ending, unpleasant to all parties involved. No, it would have to be something cleaner. He wondered if he could drain his mana so completely that his body stopped functioning. Or maybe just throw himself at some wild beast who would make the choice for him. Though the prospect of being eaten alive or chopped into small pieces wasn’t very alluring. No, it’d have to be by his own hand. His own responsibility, his own decision.

He’d slit his wrists, then. He had seen enough times how to do it to be successful. Yes. He’d do it right after his clinic was closed for the night so no one would come look for him until morning, maybe even noon the next day. That way he’d have time to… die, he thought with a shudder. No one would interrupt him.

Isabela sashayed into the clinic on the day Anders had chosen to be his last. She invited him for cards in the evening, their usual pastime in the Hanged Man. He declined, saying he didn’t feel too well, that he’d turn in early tonight.

A little later, Hawke came to visit, repeating Isabela’s invitation. Oh, how his heart ached, knowing that this was the last time he’d see Hawke’s gorgeous face. The last time he’d see that dazzling smile that squeezed and stretched the red mark across his nose. He wanted to hug Hawke, to kiss him, to say goodbye and confess whatever feelings he had had. Maybe in the next life.

“Are you all right?” Hawke asked, one bushy eyebrow raised.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine, just really tired. Like I told Isabela, I’m not feeling well so I’ll turn in early tonight and skip the cards.”

“Does it have something to do with your… you know?” Hawke continued awkwardly, gesturing in the air.

His what? The separation?

Oh. His magic.

“No, no, it’s quite alright,” Anders assured. “I think I might have eaten something that didn’t agree with me, that’s all.”

That seemed to reassure Hawke, who smiled kindly, sympathetically and left. For the last time.

Anders’ heart was racing when he extinguished the lanterns and closed the doors of his clinic. He wouldn’t lock them, no, because that would mean they’d have to be broken in to find his body. He didn’t want to be a further inconvenience.

He tidied up as best he could, unable to imagine what kind of person would take his space, his clinic after he was gone. Everything was sorted, organized, easy for the next one to find and use. No inconveniences.

He sat on his cot, dressed down to his smalls. Someone could use his clothes, but not if they were soaked with blood. His blood. The thought made his heart try to escape through his mouth, pounding with a sickening feeling. He understood that his body was trying to stop him, some primal survival instinct telling him to stop with this and keep on living. Keep on staying in this wretched, miserable existence.

Tears were welling in his eyes, his breath quick and shallow. He plunged the knife into his wrist, then the other, fast enough to keep any unpleasant thoughts of going back from appearing. He couldn’t go back. He was a burden for the others. This was so much better, for everyone.

There was a strange sort of buzz in his head as he leaned back against the dirty wall, watching the blood flow from beneath his skin. He thought he could see a pulse in the bleeding, his lips and whole mouth going numb, dizzy with both pain and relief and a terrible sort of anxiety. Yes, this was right, he repeated to himself. This is what he should have done a long time ago. Without Justice, without the Grey Wardens, he was nothing. Just another healer. Expendable.

His eyelids felt like lead. Oh, he knew all about this. He’d pass out first from the blood loss, eventually dying. It was too late to go back now. For a moment he thought he could hear Hawke’s voice calling out to him, from somewhere far, far away, a little pleased that his dying mind would turn to Hawke in his last moments. Or perhaps it was the Maker calling to him. He felt cold and so, so tired. He closed his eyes, slumping down to his side.

Ahh, this was it. The end.

 

* * *

 

_“…almost too late…”_

_“...would he… this?”_

_“…need to… with him…”_

_“…if… wake up?”_

The first thing Anders’ brain registers is hurt. His arms hurt. His head hurts. His shoulders hurt. He opens his eyes and sees a dark red colour covering the ceiling. He blinks, bleary, realizing it’s cloth. His ears make out the crackle of fire to his right. There’s a faint sense of warmth coming from there. This was not the Maker’s side.

His ground dips with added weight and there’s the touch of a hand on his bare upper arm.

“Anders?” asks a quiet voice.

This was the realm of mortals still. He wasn’t dead.

Merrill started prattling the second she heard Anders’ sob, asking how he felt and does it hurt and she can get some salves and everything will be alright and whatever else her brain produces.

Anders doesn’t hear it. He cries, snivelling with deep heaves of air, feeling betrayed for still being alive. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He doesn’t notice that there are more people in Hawke’s bedroom before there’s a hand on his shoulder where he’s curled up on his side, hands against his chest, cries wrecking his being. This was not how it was supposed to go.

“What were you thinking?” he hears Fenris ask and feels a surge of rage flush through him.

“What were _you_ thinking?! Couldn’t you let me die in peace?!” he shrieks, abruptly sitting up on the lush bed. The blanket that covered him slips down to expose his upper body, only bandages wrapped around his wrists. His amber eyes are full of anger, but it’s not Fenris at his side on the bed, it’s Hawke.

“Anders, how could you say that?” Hawke asks, hurt.

Anders backs up on the bed, away from Hawke’s touch. “I’m done,” he glares. Fenris and Merrill are standing further in the room, one staring at Anders with worry, the other with disdain.

He feels energy sap out of his body, the sudden rush draining him. “I’m tired of being your healing _machine_ ,” he spits out before tears start to burn in his eyes again.

“What are you talking about? You’re not a machine, Anders.”

Why couldn’t they just let him die and find someone else? Before he vocalizes the thought, he’s already fallen back asleep.

 

* * *

 

Whenever he wakes, there’s someone there. Pacing, sitting, snoring, staring. He drinks the water they give him and starts to cry again, disappointed that he’s still not dead. At times he lashes out, others he just silently does what he’s told to before curling up under the blanket again, resentful.

Most of the time it’s a different person. It seems like the whole gang – even Varric – has agreed to take turns watching him, hounding his sleep like some gaoler. Maker, he just wanted to close his eyes and never wake up again.

“I think he needs a shave,” Varric comments when their shifts change.

“No, we’re not going near his throat with a sharp blade,” Hawke says sternly.

“I admit, you have a point there,” Varric agrees. Anders can almost hear the shrug in the dwarf’s voice.

The door closes and Anders feels the bed dip behind him. Hawke’s hand drops against his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, gently.

“Horrible,” Anders replies from somewhere between the pillow and covers.

“Listen, I—we’ve been thinking, about what you said,” Hawke continues. Anders doesn’t turn to face him.

“We’re sorry if we made you feel like a, a machine. We had no idea you felt like that. We don’t really understand why you would even feel—“

“You couldn’t understand,” Anders growls. “Justice is _gone_!”

“Yes, I know he is, but why would—“

“Without Justice, I’m wanting!” Anders interrupts, turning his head to glare daggers at Hawke. If he notices the bags underneath Hawke’s dark eyes, he doesn’t linger on it. “I’m useless! I don’t have a purpose, a goal in my life without Justice! I’m utterly alone without him!”

That makes Hawke bristle. “Alone?” he asks, menacing. “ _Alone_? I found you unconscious in your clinic and carried your sorry ass back here, and all of us have been here, nursing you like an overgrown child so that you wouldn’t do something as incredibly stupid like that again! How do you turn that into ‘alone’?!”

“Yes, acting like the bloody Templars in the Circle! Always watching me, ordering me, controlling me,” he seethes and continues before Hawke can get a word in between.

“You only want me for my healing magic!” Anders nearly screams, logic forgotten in his acrimony. “So yes, I am stupid for not realizing that sooner! It took a near death experience and the loss everything I had to open my eyes to it!”

Hawke stares at him, unable to fathom his words. “What in the world are you talking about? We’re your _friends_ , Anders.”

The devastation in Hawke’s voice made Anders crumple a little on himself. Hawke really seemed to believe that they were his friends.

“We want to help you.”

Anders refused to reply, pretending he’d fallen asleep.

 

* * *

 

Simply mentioning the clinic made Anders seize up in anxiety, hyperventilating and eyes widening. He was partly disappointed in himself for not taking care of the poor and partly afraid that he’d get sucked into the way his life had been before if he went back to work. It would be like pretending nothing had happened, like the bandages around his wrists didn’t exist.

So at first, the others fetched him things for him. They didn’t report of the questions they had heard regarding to the healer’s whereabouts. Eventually Anders deemed himself ready enough to visit Darktown and sort things out. Naturally Aveline suggested she’d accompany him and Anders accepted with a grumble and an eyeroll.

“Do you think you can live there again?” Aveline inquired as they made their way to the Undercity.

“I have to,” Anders replied morosely, feeling uncomfortable in the ill-fitting clothes he’d borrowed from Hawke.

“Anders, you know that’s not true,” she reprimanded. “We can help you look for another place. Or you could just stay with Hawke.”

Anders sighed, pushing the dingy wooden door open into the clinic. “I’ve already inconvenienced Hawke too much by staying there this long.”

Aveline leaned against the doorjamb while Anders milled around the room, watching the mage for signs of an anxiety attack.

“Who knows, he might like the company,” she suggested and received a stare in response.

Anders collected some of the herbs that hadn’t withered yet, grabbed a few empty flasks, several books and a copy of his manifesto. With his things tucked away in a sack, he made for the door. But where would he go? He couldn’t stay here, not now at least. He didn’t want to stay with Merrill and that mirror of hers. Nor did he want to visit Fenris, that would become too complicated. He could rent a room at the Hanged Man and spend time around Varric and Isabela unless he was so short on coin. Aveline was married. There was no place for him.

“So, where to next?” Aveline asked.

“I… I don’t know.”

He didn’t even moan about the lack of personal freedom. Perhaps that tipped Aveline off.

“I think I heard Orana say she’d be making roast lamb with green sauce. Why don’t we go and have a taste?”

Nodding, almost defeated, Anders agreed and started the trip back to Hightown.

 

* * *

 

A few weeks later, when the surveillance had ceased, Anders found himself still staying at Hawke’s estate. He had taken a small unused room on the bottom floor as his own, temporarily, of course. He refused time and time again to sleep anywhere else, saying that he was already sleeping like a king compared to his cot in the clinic. Down with the servants was good enough for him.

There were days when he wouldn’t get up from bed at all, so tired of everything, occasionally sobbing silent tears at the unfairness of it all. The black stain was still there, in his mind, and on some days, the pull was too strong to fight against. He’d lie in bed all day with the oil lamps unlit, taking only a quick detour to the kitchen on his way from the bathroom, then come back and nibble on a piece of cheese or equivalent.

Then there were days where he thought he’d get through all this, days when he felt he could talk to Hawke about his feelings, about the black stain in his mind. He could tell Hawke didn’t understand (“you just need to go out more” or “you should eat better” or “it’ll pass; everyone feels like that some days”) but he still diligently listened. Over and over again, he listened, soothing Anders with a touch or a hug when he broke down into tears.

Hugging Hawke felt nice. He was warm and Anders felt safe with Hawke’s arms around him. He was sure Hawke didn’t like it as much, as Anders’ crying made a mess of his shirt.

There were days, or more specifically nights, when Anders would join the gang for a game of cards. Sometimes he had to leave before the first hand had been dealt, other times he could stay for hours. Sometimes it was better, sometimes worse. He hated the sidelong glances he wasn’t supposed to see, patronizing looks of worry. They didn’t feel like friends on those nights.

The first time when they tried to talk about the healing magic issue, Anders had closed off and bolted for the door. He hadn’t been ready for that discussion. They had been on adventures though, without Anders. That made him feel even more useless, like he was failing them in the only thing he was useful for anymore. It was an impossible, vicious cycle; if they said that they needed Anders, he felt like he was being used. If they said they didn’t need Anders, he felt horribly worthless.

In time, he reopened the clinic. Not for more than an hour a day, at first. The rest of the time he spent stocking up on herbs and supplies and always returned to Hawke’s mansion for the night. He knew Hawke wanted to know that he was doing alright, and quite frankly, it was easier to sleep on a decent bed. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to live in the shabby back room of the clinic any more.

Getting good, nutritious meals every day didn’t hurt either. Anders gave most of his measly income to Hawke as rent money, not knowing that Hawke just kept those coins in a box and never spent them on anything. And he did his best to help around the mansion, whether it was with Orana or Bodahn or even Sandal. They didn’t need it as much as Anders needed to feel useful.

He heard that there had been a big operation on the mage underground with a lot of his companions arrested or killed. That didn’t mean he’d give up the fight, he’d just devise new tactics and slowly, peacefully try to change the system. Hawke agreed with that.

 

* * *

 

Winter was making its first advances upon Kirkwall, teasing with freezing temperatures between milder autumn days. Anders was able to keep the clinic open for four hours on most days, seeming to do a lot better than before. It was an uphill battle and there were still days when he just couldn’t get himself out of bed. To his amazement, there wasn’t a pile of corpses outside the clinic doors the next day when he was able to go. He had patients, yes, but they weren’t wholly dependent on him. Or they could wait until he was able to treat them again.

Despite the cold weather, something warm had started to stir in Anders. It happened more and more in the presence of Hawke, when they talked or ate together or played cards with the others. Behind the black stain he heard a whisper of what he once wanted, how he had felt about Hawke before. Now that he had spent more time with the man, a drop of those warm thoughts was enough to make heat rise to his cheeks. Hawke had been there, supporting him, all this time. Was he falling for him? And did he have any right to ask for more than friendship after taking so much from Hawke?

One night when the temperature nipped low, Anders dragged a chair close to the fireplace in the large side room of the mansion, comfortably ensconced with a book in hand when Hawke appeared from the foyer.

“What are you reading?”

“The Adventures of the Black Fox,” Anders answered, keeping his eyes on the lines of text in front of him.

“Who was that again?” Hawke asked, settling into the chair across Anders’. “The killer elf?”

“A dashing rogue,” Anders replied nonchalantly, stealing a glance at Hawke above the top of the book.

“You know,” Hawke started with a sly grin. “Rumour has it that you’re living with one.”

Anders had come to realize that these kinds of flirtations were everyday friendliness for Hawke. He’d flirt at Fenris and Merrill and Isabela and even Aveline. So Anders had just ignored the twangs of jealousy when he heard Hawke talk like that to others.

Up until now.

“Really? One that inspires legends and stories?”

“Uh huh.”

“A nobility who is still popular with the common folk?”

“Almost.”

“And one who wears a mask?”

“Anders, I didn’t know you had that kind of inclinations,” Hawke replied with faux horror, mirth in his dark eyes.

Anders burst out laughing and put the book aside. It felt good to laugh at something as silly as that. It felt good to see Hawke laughing with him.

“All right, dashing rogue, what is it you want?”

“I wanted you to try sleeping in my new furs,” Hawke said enthusiastically, referring to the items brought in from the marketplace earlier on the day.

“I meant, uh, just to, sleep, I, er—“ he added in haste when he saw the way Anders’ face went from surprised to somewhat sensual.

His heart was beating fast in his chest. “Do you think there’ll be room for both of us?” he asked, trying to sound as confident as he wanted to sound.

The warm light of the fireplace did nothing to hide the flush creeping up on Hawke’s features as well. “Well, I mean, we’d have to be pretty close to each other.”

Anders dared a small smile. “I think I’d like that. Very much.”

He couldn’t give any kind of guarantees for the future, but for now, Anders was content with his place in life. And later when Hawke’s lips carefully traced each scar on his wrists before swearing he’d never again let anything hurt Anders… Well, he could even say he was happy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [statisticsfag.tumblr.com](http://statisticsfag.tumblr.com)


End file.
